


Flight For Freedom

by QuillerQueen



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Runaways AU, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25698505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillerQueen/pseuds/QuillerQueen
Summary: Prompt 41 of OQ Prompt Party 2020: A verse with Regina running away from home at 17 from abusive parents and meeting Robin as another runaway.TW: referenced past abuse, referenced past sexual abuse, suicidal thoughts.
Relationships: Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Robin Hood, Outlaw Queen
Comments: 13
Kudos: 21





	Flight For Freedom

Her first mistake is looking back.

What does she have to look back on? Daniel’s makeshift ring and Daddy’s framed photo are tucked safely in her bag, and they’re the only thing worth holding on to. There's nothing else to miss—her favourite pillow is drenched in tears, her childhood toys all carry whispered secrets little Regina had no one else to entrust to, and her room was never really the safe space she needed.

She looks back because she can’t shake the guilt, no matter how irrational—and by giving in to it, she feeds it.

She looks back even though she knows she’s not going to miss home. She looks back because she wishes, even now, after everything, it wasn’t so. She looks back to be able to move forward.

But the moment she looks back, her hands slip on the dewy trellis. As she scrambles to hold on, thorns, aggressive like the ever-present smell of Cora’s roses, pierce her skin and draw blood. Her shoulders ache under the straps of the backpack before her feet even hit the grass. The lush lawn muffles her landing, but her heart is beating so wildly it might just give her away.

The familiar rush of anxiety settles in her stomach, coiling and twisting, but she pays it no mind. Slinking in the shadows, she avoids the prying eyes of the security cameras. The gates don’t open for her—Mother has seen to that—but the tree-climbing prowess she’d been so severely criticised for serves her well, as does the majestic crown of the apple overhanging the electric fence.

Her knees buckle when she hits the asphalt on the other side, but her eyes water from something other than pain.

Freedom, at last.

How long until they notice her absence?

Regina runs. She chases the waning moonlight and the rising sun into the throng of the city. Regina runs until she runs out of breath, and then she drags her feet forward until skyscrapers obstruct the sky.

She loses herself in the crowd—one lonesome drop in a sea of strangers.

* * *

Her second mistake is letting her guard down.

She has food for the day, and a little money, but not much beyond that. She doesn’t know where her next meals will come from. She’s fairly certain though she’ll sleep more soundly under a bridge than in the unsafety of her own (no longer hers) bed.

She’s wrong about that.

Spikes and obstacles, cruel and deliberate, seem to have sprung up overnight in the city. Or perhaps she’s just never paid attention before, zoned out in the stretch limo, sometimes with her mother’s hand gripping her wrist or Leo’s fingers digging into her thigh. Nevertheless, there they are, showcasing the city's hostility to the most destitute.

Benches have armrests now, but not for comfort. They slant and rise, cold and hard. Vents have grown spikes, and will not offer relief in the night chill. For the first time it dawns on her that those gapped awnings she used to dismiss as shoddy work might in fact have been designed that way—all to withhold shelter.

And wherever a rare spot does present itself, she finds it already taken.

Regina won't ask to share—Regina doesn't trust people anymore.

Eventually, she dozes off propped against the peeling wall of a newsstand in broad daylight, too tired to notice when the hood of her jacket slips off.

"Hey—Isn't that the rich girl from the news?"

"What, in the baggy sweater and torn jeans? Senator's spoiled little daughter wouldn't be caught dead in that."

But it _is_ her, and _fuck_.

Regina pulls her oldest, shabbiest clothes tighter to her, hugging her knees until the men leave in fits of laughter.

She underestimated them, didn't she? Of course they'd make a show of looking for her. Of course they'd pretend to want her back. Or even truly want her back—she's a tool, a thing to use and abuse as they see fit after all.

Regina is a runaway, but she can't risk joining the ranks of the poor and the homeless. As always, she belongs nowhere. She's doomed to be alone.

* * *

Her third mistake is following her heart.

It's been three days, and she hasn't slept. Another night creeps in, and she's tired, and hungry, and barely standing upright. Only the loneliness isn't new.

She wanders the streets on autopilot and barely registers where she's going until the rearing horse greets her. She's been avoiding it, because anyone who knew her even the least bit would expect her to come here sooner or later. The statue reminds her of Daddy, of Daniel, of Rocinante—a handful of happy memories and love lost.

_Love is weakness._

She cries, then. For the first time since her break for freedom, she bursts into tears. They’re gone too soon, the only ones who ever truly loved her...and not for the first time she wishes she could join them, wherever they had gone.

But she’s never found it in her to do something about it. Is it fear that makes her cling to life? Defiance? Sheer stubbornness? She doesn’t know.

“I’ve—I’ve done s-something,” she sobs, wiping her face with a sleeve. She’s finally done something with her life—seized it, snatched it from Cora’s cold, steely hands, and fled with it. “I’ve done _something_ at last.”

It’s true, except...

“What do I do now?” she whispers, staring up at the stone horse as if it held answers.

“Get better at hiding.”

Regina flinches, staggering back. Straight into something. Some _one_.

“Back off!” she screams. Her heart is being impossible, stampeding in a wild staccato. But she’s not completely helpless, despite the panic muscle memory sets in—her elbow lodges itself into her attacker’s side, and then it’s him crying out in pain.

“Fuck,” he pants, breathless, clutching his side. Now’s her chance to get away. “Do not lose that move—it’s bloody effective.”

“Not enough—you’re still talking,” she points out. What is wrong with her? She should be long gone by now. Why is she talking to this man—this _boy_?

He can’t be much older than she is. Not tall, but lanky. Sharp jaw, sharp eyes—blue. Unshaved stubble, but not quite enough for a full beard or to conceal the dimples. Smirking lips, even as he struggles to catch his breath.

_This one’s trouble._

Still she’s not running.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.

“I’m not scared,” she prickles. It’s true, she realises—she’s not scared of him. Wary, yes, but not panicked, not anymore. She just hates it when people sneak up on her, that’s all.

“Startle you, then,” he concedes. Not quite an apology, but close enough.

“And what did you mean?”

“To ask if you might want to dine with me,” he says casually, brushing back the jaunty flop of hair falling into his eyes.

“What?” Red flags flash bright from every direction. There is no way she’s having dinner with a strange man. What is he thinking? “First you lecture me about hiding, and now you’d have me put myself at the mercy of a stranger? You must think me stupid.”

“Not stupid. Inexperienced.”

“I’m not naive. I’ve gone through more than you can possibly imagine.”

“Perhaps you could tell me some of it over dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Regina’s stomach chooses that moment to growl.

“If you say so,” the boy smirks.

It’s a stalemate. They just stand there, eyeing each other, while Regina works her mind, trying to ignore her rumbling stomach. Why would he offer her dinner? He doesn’t even know her. It hits her then—and she should have knows right off, it should have clicked immediately, because of course the offer would come at a price, and that price is her.

“I’m not a wh—” she begins, her face burning with anger and shame, but can’t bring herself to say the word. “I don’t sell sex.”

“And I didn’t assume you did.” She wouldn’t believe him if it weren’t for the way his cheeks flush and he suddenly doesn’t know where to look. He shakes it off fast, though. “It was a friendly offer, no more. You’re new to the streets. It’s hardest at the beginning. Easier when you have someone, always.”

“I’m on my own. Don’t,” she warns, because she doesn’t want pity, couldn’t stand it in her fragile state. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.” She inhales sharply; it doesn’t do much to steady her. “It’s better that way, for me.”

He tilts his head at her, and she fully expects him to argue, but he doesn’t. (Why would he bother? She’s nothing to him. Not worth the trouble.)

“As you wish,” he nods. “If you ever change your mind, look for the Troll Bridge. My name’s Robin.”

She doesn’t offer hers in return.

“Goodbye, Robin,” she says instead, and sets off in the opposite direction.

* * *

By dusk, she admits defeat.

She’s out of money, out of food, and out of ideas. Her search for a job is over before it even starts—Cora is still looking for her, and by the time she stops, the streets will have left enough of a mark on Regina that no one will want to hire her. There’s no shelter to be had, and as darkness falls, creatures of the night flood the streets. Most are harmless, she thinks, but there’s no knowing them from the dangerous ones. She’s not safe.

The Troll Bridge sounds like a made-up place, marked on none of the maps she passes in the city. Dragging her feet, she finds herself on the outskirts, gazing at a half-faded street plan. On the very edge, she finds it—Toll Bridge, it says in print, but someone has squeezed a scribbled R in there.

It’s dark by the time she reaches the small forest. Her flashlight flickers, its beam duller by the minute. When the arch of the bridge rises before her, she stops.

"I'm not out to hurt you," comes his voice from the dark, unmistakable with its lilting accent.

“I have no way of knowing that."

“That you don't.” He emerges with a flashlight of his own—and a greasy bag dripping oil. “Take this, at least.”

It smells delicious. Her mouth waters. Her head spins with hunger.

It’s not smart to accept food from a stranger, but neither is starving to death.

Regina can’t help it—she digs in right where she stands, more ravenous with each bite, shoveling down spicy chicken and fries until there’s not a morsel left.

All the while, neither of them speaks.

"They’re pricey,” she says, licking her fingers for every last morsel. She has no dignity left, but still some lingering hunger she’s desperate to sate. “You can’t have much to spare.”

“They’re not pricey to me,” Robin says over his shoulder, halfway back to his hideout. He doesn’t invite her to follow; she does anyway. “All it takes is the right tricks up your sleeve and you can eat fairly well, even on the street. Considering, I mean.” A her skeptical look, he chuckles. “All right, there’ll be variance.”

“You’re a thief,” she accuses. She shouldn’t be surprised. She’s considered it herself—something cheap, a hot dog stand maybe—but didn’t have the nerve to go through with it, or the skill to pull it off. Robin clearly did.

“I’m a survivor.” He turns to her with those piercing eyes. “And so are you.”

He’s not wrong, not exactly. It still feels like unearned praise.

“Yeah, well, bad luck has always followed me around.”

“Maybe some of mine will rub off on you.”

“You consider yourself lucky? Here, like this?”

They’ve reached the foot of the bridge, with the meagre stream running beneath it and jagged rocks piled across. She knew the look—another measure taken to discourage the likes of them from settling down here. Robin’s found a way though, whittling away at a stone or two, to make it bearable. The floor underfoot is strewn with pine needles and old newspapers that appear well-read.

“Happier than ever,” he smiles, clearing a rockface for her to sit on. “Granted, my father’s ancestral home had certain charms and comforts...but it also had my father.”

Regina’s stomach sinks—a familiar sensation, but usually reserved for herself and not for another. There must be dozens of people like them, teens, children even. She might feel alone with her burden, but her situation is not singular.

“I’m sorry,” she offers, little though words can do.

Robin shrugs. “I’ve been gone a year now. He’s never even posted an ad. Must have chosen to hide his shame, or relief that his failure of a son has finally taken off.”

“What did he want for you?”

“Oh, just the usual,” he says dryly, fumbling with something she can’t see.

“To marry well and give him heirs whose trajectory will continue ever higher upwards?”

Robin looks up from his toil at the bitter sarcasm lacing her words.

“Ouch,”he frowns. “Your mother must be a piece of work indeed.”

“My stepfather isn’t any better.”

“They’re looking for you, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” She blinks. “And so do you.”

Robin hands her yesterday’s newspapers—her face on every cover, with a desperate plea from her “concerned parents” and a promise of generous reward for her return. 

Regina stares at the damp papers, then back at Robin. She didn’t need to give him her name—he already knew. The money they’re offering would raise him from poverty and give him a second chance at life. He could have turned her in already—he might have. If he has, it’s already too late for her; if he hasn’t, well, that would be a pleasant surprise for once.

Regina clambers to the spot offered to her and dangles her feet from the rock’s edge. Robin hands her half a chocolate chip cookie and a can of Coke.

“I never cared much for rules,” he says, as if they hadn’t just touched upon the chance of a lifetime for him and a lifetime of betrayal for her. “My family owns land, and housing on it, and we’ve tenants. I used to have friends among them. Whenever crisis struck, father would send me to deal with it. Fix this. Threaten that. Evict those.” He closes his eyes briefly, letting the cookie melt in his mouth. “I refused.”

Regina swallows the last of her share and sighs. She’d bet she knows what would come next.

“Let me guess. You were too soft? Not ambitious enough? A constant disappointment?”

“Something along those lines, yeah,” Robin nods, crossing his legs and fixing his eyes on her. “You seem to know the drill.”

“I do.”

“Well, they can shove it. They can’t touch us now. To freedom.”

He raises his soda can in a toast.

“To freedom,” she repeats, and feels that spark of excitement in her belly return for the first time in days.

She’s dizzy when the sting of the carbonated drink hits the roof of her mouth—they were forbidden at home, and so a novelty to her, a sign of rebellion. Pathetic, really, but who is there to judge? Certainly not Robin, who sits bright-eyed and giddy, as if on the brink of a new adventure.

She wants to feel like that. She thought she would feel like that. But then—reality hit, she supposes. She thought she was prepared, but she was mistaken. That seems to be a pattern with her.

Her belly is blissfully full, and her eyes start drooping.

“Can I stay here? Just this night. I won’t take up much space.”

She surprises even herself with the request, but there’s no time to withdraw it, his answer comes so fast.

“My house is your house.”

Of course it’s not a house but the rocky bottom of a bridge, but somehow that makes his gesture more valuable, not less.

“I’ve a blanket. It’s not much, but it helps. We can sh—”

He stops. Before her heart even sets to hammering against her chest after the several beats it’s missed, he stops. Before she could say anything or think of what to say at all, he stops, his perpetual bravado all gone all of a sudden, his cheeks red.

“We can take turns,” he says softly.

Maybe he remembered their earlier misunderstanding regarding sex work. Maybe he knows about stepfathers, some of them, with wandering eyes and, sometimes, hands. Maybe she’d rather not think too much about it.

“Yes,” she nods instead, voice cracking with relief. “Thank you.”

“Ladies first,” he grins gamely.

Regina, grateful for the light tone, raises an eyebrow. “All you’re missing is a white steed,” she quips. 

“Chivalry’s not to milady’s liking?” he clutches his chest dramatically. Then, with a wink, he leans against the foot of the bridge and gazes up at the scrap of sky above. “I’ll wake you when it’s time to switch.”

She curls up between two rocks. They poke at her spine, her hip, but she doesn’t think it’ll stop her from dozing off. The threadbare blanket is soft with use, smelling of earth and pine. A small voice pipes up as she rests her head on her arm.

_You shouldn’t be here. You don’t know him. You can’t trust him._

Regina pulls the blanket tighter around her and closes her eyes.

If it’s a mistake, well, it’s hers to make.

* * *

When she wakes, it’s still dusk under the bridge, but beyond it it’s broad daylight. She’s slightly chilly, but not cold. Not far from her, Robin sleeps huddled only in his hoodie, shivering in the morning chill.

The blanket is still wrapped tightly around her—he must have never tried to take it.

Regina’s heart squeezes. Her eyes burn. Her chest constricts, then expands as she inhales the cool air and for the first time in ages _feels_ it filling her lungs.

No one has shown her such kindness in years.

It must be a trick—it always is. She should know better than to trust anyone. She's always had to fend for herself.

He took her in—why? To lull her into a false sense of security? And then what?

Scenarios flash through her mind, from bad to worse. The reward Cora has set for any information leading to Regina’s recapture. Petty crime, and accomplices, and mules. Drug trafficking, sex trafficking, and other tortures. It’s safer on one’s own…

It’s not much of a life though. Isn’t that why she ran away in the first place? To make a life of her own?

She can be careful, and not cut all ties for once. She can be cautious—allow no more than a peek at a time into who she is. She can take a chance, and be smart about it.

“Look who’s finally woken up,” she teases when he stretches and yawns, playing for time because she’s still undecided.

Robin sits up, and his face splits into a smile.

“You’re here. I thought you might’ve, well...”

“Gotten better at hiding?”

“Well, not hiding...but running?”

It hits her then—her entire life she’s been running. From the awful reach of her mother’s cruelty. From her father’s helplessness in the face of it. She’s learnt to run from hope, too, for fear it would only lead to more loss, more pain, more suffering. Now that she’s free...

“I don’t want to run anymore.” His eyes sparkle when she offers him her hand. “Partners?”

“Friends,” he says.

Perhaps it’s not a mistake after all. She sees it in his eyes, feels it when they shake hands and linger—a silent understanding. A promise of something yet unnamed.

Perhaps this is the beginning of hope.


End file.
